The subscription book

An original fiction passage set in the nineteenth century.

The infirmary’s subscription book lay open beneath the committee-room lamps. Most of its entries were written in Mr Pritchard’s firm black hand: five pounds from the grocer, twelve from the mill owner, and smaller sums collected in jars from the surrounding villages. Beside Sir Rowan Bell’s name, however, an amount of fifty pounds remained in pencil.

Edmund had checked the cash box twice. No letter or payment had arrived from Sir Rowan, although the promised sum had already been included in the total prepared for the annual meeting.

“Ink it in,” Mr Pritchard said. “A gentleman’s promise is not an empty purse.”

Edmund kept the pen above the page. Through the folding doors came the scrape of chairs as subscribers entered the hall. Sir Rowan’s voice carried above the others, cheerful and certain.

“The report says money received,” Edmund replied.

Mr Pritchard closed the cash box with unnecessary force. “The report also keeps this building supplied with coal. You may choose which fact matters more.”

When the meeting began, the subscription book was placed on a lectern so that Edmund could read the accounts aloud. Sir Rowan sat in the front row, resting both hands upon the silver head of his cane. Edmund reached the final column. The expected total, four hundred and thirty-two pounds, seemed to wait for him in Mr Pritchard’s notes.

“The sum received is three hundred and eighty-two pounds,” Edmund said.

A murmur moved through the room. He could have stopped there, but the pencilled amount appeared more conspicuous than before.

“A further fifty pounds has been promised by Sir Rowan Bell.”

Sir Rowan did not look towards the book. After a moment, he announced that his payment would be delivered on Monday. Several people began to applaud, although the sound weakened when Mr Pritchard remained still.

The payment arrived as promised. With it came a short note stating that the infirmary should expect no further subscription from Sir Rowan. Edmund entered the fifty pounds in ink and corrected the total. The matron, watching him, said only, “At least this page is accurate.”

Edmund turned to the clean page prepared for the following year. Its empty columns looked wider than they had before.

“Edmund’s honesty is presented as courageous, but the ending makes it impossible to see his decision as a straightforward success.”

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